


Five Times Crowley Made Tea Wrong + One Time He Got It Right

by Z A Dusk (snakeandmoon)



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: 5+1 Things, Aziraphale and Crowley Through The Ages (Good Omens), Aziraphale and Crowley in Love (Good Omens), Canon Era, Dancing, First Time, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Making Love, Mild Angst with a happy ending, Post-Canon, Snake Crowley (Good Omens), South Downs Cottage (Good Omens), Tea, a little pining as a treat, look aziraphale is particular about his tea, which is a surprise to no one
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-19
Updated: 2020-10-19
Packaged: 2021-03-08 22:07:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,137
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27094033
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/snakeandmoon/pseuds/Z%20A%20Dusk
Summary: Throughout history, Aziraphale has enjoyed sampling the local tea. Crowley secretly enjoys making tea for his angel - but is not so secretly terrible at it. Will Crowley ever defeat his leaf-steeped nemesis?A slow, gentle love story told across continents and over many cups of tea.Written for The Ineffable Con 2 zine.Thank you as always toMira Worosfor the magical beta! I swear she knows what I'm trying to say better than I do <3
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 12
Kudos: 63
Collections: The Ineffable Con 2





	Five Times Crowley Made Tea Wrong + One Time He Got It Right

**Yangdang Mountains, China, 980** **AD**

The first time Crowley made Aziraphale tea, he found the angel sitting in the doorway of a tiny hut on a mountainside near Wenzhou. In his hands, he held a small, elegant cup that fit perfectly in his palm. He was taking slow sips and smiling beautifically after each one.

Crowley almost felt guilty for disturbing him. But guilt didn’t seem very demonic and besides, he was happy to see Aziraphale. A few centuries had passed since Wessex, and they hadn’t been stationed near enough to one another to warrant calling on the Arrangement. 

“Whatcha doing, angel?”

Crowley slithered out of the long grasses beside the hut, shifting easily into his human form as he reached the open door where Aziraphale sat.

“Ah, hello. I did not expect to see you this far from our usual haunts.”

Was that disappointment or a hint of gladness? Aziraphale had such an expressive face, but he was also good at hiding his initial responses to anything before they had time to settle onto his countenance, and Crowley had been too slow and missed this one. So he shrugged, and gestured for Aziraphale to move along the wooden step so Crowley could sit down next to him. 

“Got sent to tempt some local merchants into dirty deals.”

Crowley saw no need to admit that he’d sensed the angel’s presence in China, and found himself a nearby assignment.

“How convenient.” Aziraphale definitely smiled into his cup.

“What have you got there? Looks like muddy water.”

“Tea. I have not found it anywhere else on my travels. It is growing in popularity here, but the highest quality leaves are still rather rare and expensive.”

“So of course you found some.”

Aziraphale pouted a little and made non-committal noises that thrilled Crowley’s demonic soul. He was such a perfect target for a light teasing, and Crowley couldn’t help that a shiver ran up his spine whenever the angel would roll his eyes with that fond expression that, inexplicably, seemed aimed at him.

“Let me try it then.”

Aziraphale handed him the cup and Crowley took a long sip. It was sharp but refreshing, little green bubbles of flavour exploding on his tongue.

“Hmmm, would do if there was no alcohol I s’pose. Not bad, angel.”

“I was just about to make another cup. Stay and share it with me?”

“Let me.”

Crowley got to his feet, glad of a distraction from the unexpected warmth pulsing in his chest from sitting so close to Aziraphale. 

“What do I do?”

Crowley followed Aziraphale’s instructions to the letter, even down to brewing the leaves twice at the exact right temperature, casting a tiny miracle over the pot to encourage the water along. Yet when Aziraphale took his first sip, Crowley saw his brows draw together briefly.

“Tea alright, then?”

“Quite lovely, dear boy. Thank you.”

“You’re a terrible liar, you know,” Crowley groused, but then Aziraphale laughed and the evening seemed brighter. The view from the hut was admittedly breathtaking, all soft lilac hills and cherry-scented mists rolling in. It was so restful that Crowley forgot himself for a moment and leaned in to Aziraphale. 

The angel did not move away, but instead leaned back, and they sat drinking the apparently terrible tea until the sun had long since gone and the black sky was glittering with stars.

* * *

  
**Chefchaouen, Morocco, 1513**

The second time Crowley made Aziraphale tea, it started with a heated argument.

“You can’t just love people and expect that to fix things, angel!”

“Whyever not?” Aziraphale replied in a tense voice that sounded like he wanted to shrink in on himself and disappear. 

“Because that’s not how life works. You’re so bloody naive. All this spreading love to everyone you meet isn’t going to help them in the long run. You’re just setting them up for disappointment.”

Aziraphale turned to him, and his eyes, bluer than the summer-hot skies above the town, were tinged with sadness.

“What have you got against love, Crowley?”

“Oh, I don’t know, maybe the fact that my Creator, inventor of the bloody thing, ended our relationship by scorching my skin off and leaving a gaping hole where my Grace used to be? Love is fickle. It’s just a word people say when they want something.”

“I shall make a mental note not to tell you I love you, then,” Aziraphale said quietly with the merest raise of eyebrows, before padding into the tiny bedroom and closing the heavy wooden door firmly behind him. 

When the angel didn’t emerge for several hours, Crowley stalked out of the dwelling and through the quaint walled Medina with its narrow streets and steps and buildings painted the vivid blue of the summer sky. He busied himself with his assignment for most of the night, persuading a promising young artist to turn his hand to the art of being a paid assassin instead. But when dawn arrived without another word from Aziraphale, Crowley started to worry. The angel was fussy and short-tempered at times, but they’d always resolved their temporary spats in the past. 

Would it be so bad if Aziraphale said he loved him? What skin was it off his nose either way? Maybe he'd even like it. No, not. No. That would be ridiculous. He was an immortal being, not a moonstruck youth singing a serenade under the window of his ill-fated love. And not just any immortal being, by the way, but a demon. He’d be laughed straight out of Hell for letting the angel say any such thing.

But he did like the angel, he couldn't deny that. At the very least, he couldn’t bear to leave things on argumentative terms. And so, he stopped at the local market, which was just opening for the day, and bought a selection of the finest green tea, mint leaves, sugar, and a few orange blossoms for a twist. Before their argument, Aziraphale had waxed lyrical about the Maghrebi mint tea, and insisted on using his entire supplies to make Crowley three cups of it on the previous day. 

Back at Aziraphale’s riad, with its stucco and zellige-tile decorated walls, Crowley carefully made the tea, using a brief miracle when he added the sugar a little too late and it didn’t dissolve correctly. But overall he felt he’d done an excellent job, and was therefore quite proud when he knocked on the angel’s door and softly called out, “Aziraphale? I made that tea you like.”

The door opened, and Crowley was greeted by a bright smile. Aziraphale was wearing a blue wool djellaba, and Crowley was entranced by sight of his collarbones above the slightly scooped neck.

“Tea.” He proffered the beverage hopefully. “Sorry about last night.”

“Not to worry. It would be boring if we always agreed.” Aziraphale took a sip of tea, screwed up his face slightly, then swallowed gamely and looked up at Crowley.

“Lovely, how kind of you.”

“I suppose I should head back to Hell.”

“Do you have to go?”

“I’m sorry?”

“Well … must you return today, specifically?”

Crowley stared at him for a moment in confusion. Was Aziraphale asking him to stay?

“Tomorrow would do as well so long as I turn in a compliance report sometime soon.”

“Excellent.” Aziraphale put the tea aside. “I haven’t shown you the courtyard garden yet, and I just know you’ll be fascinated by all the things that grow there - I don’t even know half of them.”

Crowley had no idea if the angel was trying to apologise, trying to be polite, or genuinely interested in spending a day with him under the hot African sun. But he wasn’t about to turn down the opportunity.

“Sure, angel. Sounds great.”

“Lovely. And Crowley?”

“Yes?”

“I wasn’t … I wasn’t trying to say I love you, or anything. That would be most unprofessional of me. Please forget I said anything?”

“It’s forgotten,” Crowley told him, knowing he would never forget it if he lived to be billions of years old.

* * *

**Venice, Italy, 1740**

The third time Crowley made Aziraphale tea, he thought he could be forgiven for not making it perfectly.

They were both assigned to the same masked ball at Doge’s Palace, Crowley to tempt the revellers to over-indulgence, and Aziraphale to steer them away from the carnal temptations of such a gathering.

Crowley was not expecting Aziraphale. Being confronted with his fashion-backwards angel dressed in the finest clothes and jewels was more than a little discombobulating. 

“Aziraphale.” He tried to drawl, tried to sound like he wasn’t fighting the urge to pull the angel close. “You look … you’re dressed …”

“Yes, dear, one does usually dress to come to a ball. You look dashing.”

Well, that would never do. Aziraphale wasn’t supposed to be bold with the compliments while Crowley was stuttering. He inspired Shakespeare with his words about the angel, for Satan’s sake!

“Care to dance?”

He offered his hand casually, though his heart was racing like a hummingbird’s. Aziraphale offered a shy smile as he placed his cream-gloved hand in Crowley’s own. His outfit was truly resplendent, all soft alabaster and gold swirled across marbled blue and indigo to give the impression of a dusk sky. His light blue mask was decorated with feathers in soft sunset pinks and oranges, and handfuls of tiny jewels that glimmered like stars.

Until that moment, Crowley had only just begun to suspect that he would tear the sky apart and stitch it together anew if Aziraphale asked him to. But as they glided across the marble floor, footsteps tracing the glittering path of the reflected candlelight, he knew it as surely as he knew his own serpent nature.

“It’s a magical night,” Aziraphale said softly in his ear as they danced closer and closer, pressing against one another. “The sort of night one might act quite completely out of character.”

“Oh?” Crowley grinned. “Well I would suggest we explore how out of character we can get you, but I wouldn’t want to take you away from your work.”

“If you’re with me, you can’t tempt all these poor nobles. Really, distracting you is the only moral choice.”

“Quite right. Do allow me to be your good deed for the night.”

Aziraphale laughed, but his eyes were darker than usual, and the way he ran his fingertips down the back of Crowley’s neck left Crowley in no doubt as to the angel’s desires.

That night, for the first time, Crowley learned how velvety Aziraphale’s skin felt under his hands, how his mouth tasted when Crowley licked into it again and again, how he groaned and trembled and gasped Crowley’s name when the demon explored his most sensitive parts with his tongue and fingers. And as the moon moved across the sky and dawn drew closer, Crowley learned again and again how Aziraphale sounded when he lost control, clinging to Crowley and pushing desperately against him.

When morning came, Crowley awoke to the sight of a dishevelled and happy angel, tangled in thick white and blue bed linens, hair glowing like a halo in the early light. 

“Are you hungry?”

“I could eat,” Aziraphale replied, his eyes twinkling in a way that suggested he could enjoy filling his mouth with things other than food. 

By the time Crowley left the villa to procure food, he was giddy. Tea was blessedly hard to come by in Italy, but with a little demonic influence he managed to scare up some dried leaves and a little stove-top pot to heat water and steep them in. He’d used a quick miracle to boil the water faster. 

Aziraphale had drunk the tea with a polite smile. Crowley had been about to ask what was so wrong with the way he made tea, but then Aziraphale had pulled him into a smiling kiss, and his strong hands had made short work of Crowley’s clothes. Neither of them was coherent again for quite some time.

* * *

**The Netherlands, 1900**

The fourth time Crowley made Aziraphale tea, he found the angel crying beside a Dutch tulip field. He immediately dropped the bundle of silks he was supposed to be trading to curry favor with a local aristocrat, and rushed to Aziraphale’s side.

“Angel? What happened?”

“Oh, Crowley. Hello.” Aziraphale quickly scrubbed at his eyes as if he was ashamed of Crowley finding him thus. “How did you know I was here?”

Crowley shrugged. “Been easy to find you since Italy. I sort of … sense you, somehow.”

Aziraphale offered him a watery smile. “Yes, I have experienced that too. It’s rather lovely.”

Crowley smiled gently back and nuzzled the tip of the angel’s nose. “Want to tell me why you’re crying over the flowers?”

“It’s nothing.” Aziraphale got to his feet, brushing dirt from his clothes. Crowley snapped a surreptitious miracle to restore them to their usual pristine state, which earned him an impossibly tender “thank you.” 

“It’s not nothing. Tell me.”

“Fine.” Aziraphale turned to him. “It’s 1900 already. Rumour has it that the antichrist will be born soon, perhaps this century or the next. If Armageddon comes, who knows what will become of us? It took us so long to love each other, Crowley, and in a couple of hundred years, it could be torn away. I would … I would miss you so desperately if … if …”

Crowley nodded and took Aziraphale’s hands in his. “I know.”

Aziraphale took a shaky breath, nodded and composed himself.

“Were you on the way to tempt someone? Please don’t let me keep you.”

“Nothing that can’t wait. Where are you staying? I brought something that I thought you’d like.”

Curiosity flickered across Aziraphale’s expressive face as he showed Crowley to his lodgings, a tiny but clean and cosy cabin at the edge of the tulip fields. Telling Aziraphale to put his feet up, Crowley busied himself heating water, and using a tiny miracle to turn the heavy china teapot into a sturdy heat-proof glass one. 

“What are you doing?”

Aziraphale was leaning forward eagerly, watching with interest. Crowley retrieved the precious cargo from an inside pocket.

“This is flowering tea. It’s silver tea needles tied together with peony, chrysanthemum, and jasmine. Had to make the teapot glass so you could watch it unfurl, see?” Crowley dropped the dried ball of tea needles and petals carefully into the teapot and watched Aziraphale as he watched the delicate blooms unfurl. 

When he took a careful sip, Crowley saw the tell-tale frown that signalled the tea still didn’t taste the way it should. Crowley groaned inwardly. One of these days, if the antichrist didn’t end it all, he was going to figure out how to make tea the angel actually enjoyed. But then Aziraphale moved closer and rested his head on Crowley’s shoulder, and nothing else mattered but starlight hair twined round a demon’s fingers, and the soft sounds of the night outside as the tea was forgotten and the small wooden sofa found itself transformed into a bed that was perfectly big enough for two.

* * *

**Mayfair, The Day After Their Trials**

The fifth time Crowley made Aziraphale tea, he could hardly tear himself away from the angel long enough to take a breath, let alone boil water. 

Aziraphale had asked if he might accompany Crowley back to his flat after their celebratory lunch at the Ritz. The moment the door closed behind them, he’d fallen on Crowley like a starving man, stripping off his clothes and covering his skin with kisses and bites. Crowley had responded by lifting Aziraphale in his arms and carrying him to the bedroom, where they’d spent several long, delicious nights writing their love on each other’s skin in stanzas of pleasure crafted with tongues and fingers. 

When they’d eventually paused long enough to speak, still panting lightly, limbs entwined, Crowley had kissed his angel lover softly and insisted on making him tea and a snack. Aziraphale had tried to say there was no need, but Crowley was secretly longing to do all those ordinary human things that he’d coveted for so long, and he told Aziaphale so. 

The angel gave him a smile that turned Crowley’s insides to honey and suggested they take breakfast in bed, because they were most likely to want some time there afterwards. Crowley, who was already daydreaming about spending at least another day showering his angel with pleasure after pleasure until he couldn’t do anything but moan and shake in Crowley’s arms, was very amenable to the idea.

And so he’d made breakfast, piling the plate with hot buttered crumpets, toast, and pots of artisanal local jams. Remembering Aziraphale’s instructions over the years, he warmed the teapot with a quick infernal miracle before brewing the Assam tea, and placed a small jug of milk on the tray.

Aziraphale had left the tea untouched after the first sip and Crowley, feeling warm and content, asked the question he’d been puzzling over for centuries.

“Angel, am I terrible at making tea?”

Aziraphale laughed and leaned over to press a slow kiss to Crowley’s mouth, almost making him forget the question.

“Absolutely. I don’t know how you manage to make it taste so terrible.”

“But you drink it sometimes,” Crowley laughed.

“Because you make it for me so sweetly and with such hope of comforting me, that I can’t bear to tell you the truth!”

“You really are an angel, aren’t you?” Crowley teased. “Drinking terrible tea to save my feelings. Come here and let me make it up to you.” 

Aziraphale’s eyes lit up at the words, and the teapot was completely forgotten for a very long time.

* * *

**The South Downs, Several Years Later**

The sixth time Crowley made Aziraphale tea, the demon was about to shed his snake skin. Life in the South Downs had softened into a sweet, gentle rhythm that he loved. They’d lived there long enough to have a well-established vegetable garden and a clucking bunch of chickens who provided eggs as well as a certain amount of entertainment, thanks to Aziraphale chatting to Dorothy, Blanche, and Rose every morning as he gathered their eggs.

They had everything Crowley hadn’t known he wanted. A porch swing with a huge patchwork blanket, more than big enough for two. A reading nook with a single oversized chair two people could squeeze into, to read together, even if they did bicker over which book to choose--Aziraphale always won those particular disagreements. A greenhouse fragrant with geraniums and tomatoes and basil, and wildflowers in the garden where bees droned on lazy summer days. The sound and scent of the sea was never far away.

And better than all of that, Crowley had an angel to hold and touch and adore, who greeted him each morning with “hello, my darling” and a soft kiss, still filled with longing for Crowley after all this time. Of course, Crowley preferred to satisfy that longing before they got out of bed, leaving his angel breathless and shaking while he went to fix them breakfast.

He’d given up on tea and just brought Aziraphale orange juice in the morning, leaving the angel to fix tea his own way later.

A few days after his first shed in the cottage, he’d admitted to Aziraphale that shedding was much more comfortable if he refrained from miracles and let himself be continuously snake-formed for a few days. He’d rarely had that kind of luxury before. 

Aziraphale had, of course, greatly encouraged this, and had filled their home with soft blankets and towels for warmth if Crowley’s skin ached, as well as long twisted branches for him to rub against at the start of his shed. Crowley also noticed their bathtub suddenly grew much bigger, enough to accommodate a large snake.

On this particular afternoon, Aziraphale had seemed out of sorts. He’d been distant when Crowley spoke to him, but refused to be drawn out on why. It was only when he’d snapped at Crowley over what to eat for dinner that night, that he finally turned to his Serpent of Eden with a heavy sigh.

“So sorry, darling, I didn’t mean to be peevish. I had a note from Heaven this morning.”

Crowley reared up at once, baring his fangs.

“Settle down, my dear serpent. It was only a formal notice that ownership of the flaming sword is being transferred to another Principality. It just brought back some unpleasant memories, that is all.”

“Of coursssse it did.” Crowley moved closer and rubbed his head affectionately against Aziraphale’s shoulder. 

“Gabriel never had any intention of letting me live.”

It was quiet and calm, but Crowley heard the ache in his voice. The lingering pain from knowing that he was disposable, that someone he’d known for all six thousand years of his life would have been quite capable of watching him burn out of existence.

“I know it still hurts.” Crowley nudged the angel’s cheek softly. “I’m sorry. Here - “

He reached for Aziraphale’s favourite blanket, taking it carefully in his mouth and tucking it around the angel, before locating his most well-loved copy of Pride and Prejudice and using a quick flick of his tale to get it off the shelf and into the angel’s lap.

“Really, Crowley, I don’t need you to mollycoddle me.”

“I know that. But you bring me coffee and trashy murder mystery novels when I get crotchety about Heaven and Hell. My turn to do the same for you.”

Aziraphale smiled a bit then, leaning his head against Crowley’s own, and running his hand carefully over the scales on top of his head.

“Let me make you ssssome tea.”

“Dear boy, how on earth will you manage in your snake form? Besides, your tea is terrible! Just stay and let us snuggle up together.”

But old habits died hard, and Crowley was already on the way to the kitchen. Millennia of practice meant he was adept at using his tail for all kinds of things, and it was surprisingly easy to boil the kettle and make a mug of tea. He did cheat a little and use the teabags that he normally reserved for himself, being quite partial to good old fashioned English Breakfast tea from a teabag. He put the milk in last, of course - he wasn’t a heathen. 

A soft footfall made Crowley look up, and if he could have smiled, he would.

“Could have brought the tea to you, angel.”

“Nonsense. It’s much easier for me to come to you, than for you to try and carry tea in this form. Come now, let us sit at the table and find something much more pleasant than Heaven to discuss.”

Aziraphale placed his mug on the table and then gathered a laughing Crowley in his arms and deposited him in one of the chairs.

“I could have done that myself, you silly bugger.”

Aziraphale smiled so warmly that Crowley could taste it on the air. “Maybe I just love holding your beautiful serpent form, did you ever think of that?”

Crowley was about to make a teasing remark, when Aziraphale took a sip of tea and his eyebrows almost shot into his hairline.

“It’s perfect, dear boy! What did you do?”

Crowley weaved his head slightly in confusion. 

“How can that be? I used a teabag, angel! I’m amazed you find it drinkable.”

There was a thoughtful silence. Then something in Crowley’s brain whirred and clunked and spat out the most unexpected answer.

“I don’t use miracles when I’m about to shed. Normally when I make you tea I’ll adjust the water temperature, or miracle up a slice of lemon … that time in The Netherlands I changed the pot into a glass one …”

Aziraphale chuckled. “Don’t I always say miracled food tastes strange? Clearly, the same is true of tea.”

“If I’d known all I had to do to make you the perfect cup of tea was be a giant bloody snake, I’d have invented the first cuppa in Eden,” Crowley grumbled.

“Probably best you didn’t.” Aziraphale put the tea down and brushed his fingers gently down the side of Crowley’s long snout. “Heaven might have tried to ban tea, and then where would we be?”

Crowley nudged the angel’s palm gently with his head.

“I suppose I’d have had to learn to brew beer instead.”

“Not very expedient in a crisis, dear. Now, let’s see if you can master coffee making next, because I -”

Whatever Aziraphale was going to say was quickly muffled in glossy black coils as Crowley playfully wrapped himself around the angel and tickled his ribs with the end of his tail. As Aziraphale’s sunlit-water laughter filled the cottage, Crowley felt his long, sinuous body grow warm with joy, mirth, and excitement about every ordinary, mundane, glorious day yet to be spent with his angel.


End file.
